


Secure Line

by MaskedShipper



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Exhibitionism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Misuse of Company Phone, PWP, Phone Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskedShipper/pseuds/MaskedShipper
Summary: “Tell me what you’d do to me if I was there.”Another late night at the office after Sousa should have clocked out--Thompson comfy and cozy in Dooley’s office again, door ajar. Sousa had every intention of walking over and shutting the door like last time, maybe a bit more brusquely than necessary just as a reminder that the other wasn’t actually running this joint, except, with his hand on the handle ready to do just that, Thompson’s composure broke. Just slightly, the smallest hitch in his breath, soon disguised by a rough, warm chuckle as if he’d never been affected at all.And Sousa found himself unable to shut the door, his blood on fire as he listened, wondering if Thompson would lose his cool again.orThompson keeps using the secure line in Dooley's office late at night, and Sousa hates how he has a thing for Thompson's voice.
Relationships: Daniel Sousa/Jack Thompson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Secure Line

There was a certain kind of quiet that wasn’t good for Daniel Sousa’s thoughts. It came with being home late at night, when the radio plays were all static, when the footfalls outside his window were too sparse to count. A tumbler of whiskey, then another, hadn’t been enough to drown out the silence, or keep creeping thoughts he wished to forget from taking up more space than they already did.

That was why he’d shown up to work far too late--or maybe far too early. Either way, there was no one around but the night crew. They nodded in his direction, accepted his excuse about wanting to get some work done on some cases, and ignored the darkness around his eyes and the weight on his shoulder the way all men did these days, not wanting to put words to the recognition they felt at the sight of it. 

It was only a few minutes in, tie already loosened and files scattered on his desk, when he heard his voice. 

“Tell me what you’re wearing, Doll.” 

The chief’s office door was ajar, and Sousa grabbed his crutch to move closer, pushing it further open as soon as he was near enough. There sat Thompson at Dooley’s spot, leaned back in his chair and legs up, ankles crossed, on the mahogany wood of the desk. And of course the asshole had the audacity not to look surprised or startled, doing nothing more than raising an infuriating brow at being caught. The receiver of Dooley’s secure line was cradled between Thompson’s shoulder and ear, and then, as if he was alone, as if Sousa hadn’t caught him in the boss’ office using the untraceable phone, he chuckled, warm and low, and whispered, “Sounds real pretty. Bet it’d be much prettier once I take it off you.” 

Sousa was polite company. He gestured his confusion instead of voicing it to spare the dignity of whoever was on the other side of that line, eyes widening, shrugging his shoulders, but Thompson just rolled his eyes as if Sousa’s mouthing of _‘what the Hell are you doing?’_ was something ridiculous instead of appropriate. 

“Maybe you’d get on your knees for me, huh? Bet I know what you’re waitin’ for. Hungry for it, ain’t you? For something thick and full in that lovely mouth you got?” 

There was a pause, dark honey eyes against Thompson’s blue, but Sousa’s ears eventually burned red and with a huff, he left the other agent to his devices and shut the door for him, making his way back to his own desk to try and forget what he’d just stumbled in on. 

It was a surprising amount of time later when Thompson came out of Dooley’s office, long enough that Sousa had already adjusted his pants and distracted himself with this case. But he lifted his head as the other walked into the bullpen, jacket slung across a shoulder, casual in the way he always was, giving a nod of greeting to the night crew before he settled at his own desk by Sousa’s. 

There was a lot Sousa could say. He could ask if Thompson’s wife and girlfriends somehow weren’t enough that he needed someone extra, could ask why he’d used Dooley’s secure line instead of just calling his new woman up from his own desk the way he’d never been ashamed of before, could ask what he was doing here this late when they started work at 9 AM sharp. But Sousa saw the darkness that Thompson’s crooked smile couldn’t hide, saw the weight on his shoulders--the same burden Sousa carried from war--and decided against a comment. 

Whatever you had to do to get you through to the next day, that wasn’t up to him to judge. 

“Did the lab-rats ever get back to you on the weird murder weapon we found on the McGuire case?” he asked instead. 

The night went on, and the longer it did, the easier it became for Sousa to ignore the heat curling between his legs each time Thompson spoke.

#

“Tell me what you’d do to me if I was there.”

Another late night at the office after Sousa should have clocked out--Thompson comfy and cozy in Dooley’s office again, door ajar. Sousa had every intention of walking over and shutting the door like last time, maybe a bit more brusquely than necessary just as a reminder that the other wasn’t actually running this joint, except, with his hand on the handle ready to do just that, Thompson’s composure broke. Just slightly, the smallest hitch in his breath, soon disguised by a rough, warm chuckle as if he’d never been affected at all. 

And Sousa found himself unable to shut the door, his blood on fire as he listened, wondering if Thompson would lose his cool again. 

“That don’t sound like me at all, but for you, Doll? I’d make an exception.” A pause, and then, “You touchin’ yourself, Sweetness? Thinking about me laying you down and givin’ it to you slow and hard, just like you need? It’s not in my nature to disappoint.” 

Sousa scoffed then, because of _course_ even when talking through something intimate, Thompson had to stroke his own ego. There was no masking his presence, so the agent opened the door wider, an unimpressed brow raised, mouthing a quiet _‘Really?’_ to which Thompson only grinned bright and playful and shrugged, nonchalant and unphased by Sousa’s presence and judgement. 

If he noticed the tightness of Sousa’s pants, well, there was no shame in that, despite the burning of Sousa’s ears or his heartbeat like molasses in his chest. Who didn’t get aroused at the idea of a woman quivering beneath them, squeezing at their breasts because there weren’t calloused, careful hands to do it for her, slipping her hand lower to rub at her own wetness at the sound of Thompson’s bourbon-slick voice--

“My friend here thinks he could treat you better,” Thompson whispered into the receiver, eyes firm on Sousa’s own, a challenge there born of some kind of toxic masculinity, some kind of desire to always one-up everyone else, but the nature of the comment was far too intimate for Sousa to deny the fact that his blood was pumping hard and fast, his skin on fire, his cock twitching in interest. “You think you’d let him try? Then you can say which of us does you best, which of us makes you shudder and moan--or maybe we’ll just see which name you got on that sweet tongue of yours. Think you could take us both at once? Slow and steady--we gotta take our time takin’ you apart.” 

It was an odd game, and one Sousa didn’t know the rules to, so he shut the door and head home for the night.

In bed, frustrating arousal in hand, he grit his teeth to keep Thompson’s name from escaping--damned asshole had crept into his thoughts and followed him home. But sleep finally came to him, more easily than it had in weeks, and he decided it was worth being upset at the other agent if it meant he could get a good night’s rest.

#

To say Sousa became dependent on his shared overtime with Thompson was a grave injustice to what was actually going on. They were exceptionally different, but they were both men who took pride in their work, and who would fault them for putting in all these extra hours? Certainly not Dooley, who called them out during the day as prime examples of their agency. Certainly not the other agents, who despite giving them sour looks at setting a new standard, were relieved by the decreased workload now that the pair was getting ahead of things at night. 

Only Carter gave Daniel sympathetic looks, as if she knew sleep haunted him and this was the only place of reprieve. She wasn’t wrong, but Sousa forced himself not to think about what he was _actually_ doing here, because putting thought to their new night-time routine made his throat burn and stomach turn to lead if he let his mind analyse it too long. 

Thompson could have any woman he wanted. The confidence was infallible, and it didn’t take long for that smile to warm up a dame’s heart, neither. His best trait, though--it had to be his voice. Steady, quiet but rough--gentle and with a promise of strength, a tease at the edge of each of his words like he was challenging you personally, like it was all game, like he didn’t care how things played out one way or the other so that you just wanted to do your best to impress him, to make him break, because boy what a feat that would be. 

Some women could crack him, just slightly--make him go quiet, or better, pull a groan through that crooked smile and make his breath quiver, just slightly, before he laughed it off. Sousa knew, because he listened in almost nightly now. 

And their game became more odd each time. 

“It ain’t right for me to leave you all alone, desperate and achin’ to be filled, is it? Wish I could kiss you breathless, pressed right up against you. You think you’d grind up against me while I did? How long do you think we could go, just my mouth claiming yours, markin’ up that lovely neck you got, suckin’ bruises so you can wear me like a memory--how long ‘till you take my hand and slip my fingers under your clothing, pressing ‘em up right where you need ‘em?”

The door was open, the night crew gone, and Sousa leaned against the doorframe to Dooley's office, shaking his head in dismay, in tired resignation, despite the fact that he was the one who was aching, who was hard, whose eyes were locked with Thompson’s. He was gripping his crutch so tight his knuckles were pale with the force of it, all to keep himself from following Thompson’s orders--as if the words were meant for him at all. 

“Nah, my friend’s not like that,” Thompson said, an answer to a question Sousa didn’t hear but that left him burning hot regardless. “He’s a real gentleman--wouldn't tease. He’s the polite sort--ask you want you want and give it to you how you need.” Pause, and then, “Oh, Doll, I bet he would. Bet he’d love his mouth on you if you asked him nice, press feather light kisses on the bruises I left, make sure any mark on you wasn’t actually painful. Wouldn’t need to fuck you to make you cum, would he? Nah, not with how careful and slow he’d be, worshippin’ the whole of you.”

Thompson’s eyes flicked to Sousa’s lips in a way that left goosebumps, dangerous and wonderful, under Sousa’s pressed button-up. 

“And when he was done, I’d give it to you rough and hard and make you cum all over again so you don’t never forget my name.” 

#

Sousa tried to stay away, made real efforts, but night after night he found himself here regardless.

“What are we doing here?” Sousa whispered, voice strained now that he’d finally broken the rules of this game. It didn’t matter if it meant Thompson won, didn’t matter if it was understood that he was supposed to keep quiet about it, that this could only go on so long as they both decided not to acknowledge it verbally. But he’d traded sleep for a new kind of sin, one he craved more deeply each night, and he was worried that whatever God could forgive him of his penchant for gambling couldn’t forgive him for his burning desire. 

Or worse, that a God might forgive him if he repented, but Sousa wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

“I’m in Dooley’s office, about to use the phone,” Thompson answered, and though his tone held its usual scoff, shutting down any room for argument, his eyes softened at the sight of Sousa’s clenched fists, at the sweat that clung to his temple and brow, at the plea for some kind of answer, some kind of reciprocity, in those dark eyes. “But maybe… I been hoggin’ it, huh?” Thompson finally said, which was so off from any answer Sousa had imagined that it startled him out of his unease, if only for a moment. “Here,” Thompson said. “You have a go, then. Let’s see how pretty you can make ‘em moan.”

Sousa wanted to talk about this. He didn’t want to leave with this in the air, this strain between them, but honestly, what did Thompson expect him to do? Actually take the phone? Talk some dame through touching her slick heat while Thompson watched him do it? Daniel Sousa wasn’t that kind of man. 

He adamantly insisted that fact to himself even as Thompson raised a brow and pushed the phone closer, even as Sousa reached out to press the receiver of the secure line to his ear, even as their gazes held tight, the steady certainty of those baby blues already making him harden. 

And then Thompson dialed a number and leaned back in Dooley’s chair and undid the fly of his pants, pulling his cock out--already hard and full in his fist despite the fact that they hadn’t called anyone yet. He stroked himself slow and casual, like there wasn’t another man watching him, like it wasn’t absolute madness to be doing this in Dooley’s office with the door unlocked, with Sousa watching that large, calloused hand work his thick cock. 

“Hey, Baby,” said a voice on the other line, low and sweet and hardened with masculinity. “Been waitin’ for you to call me again, Jack. You miss me?” 

A man. Thompson had been talking to a man. 

And as Sousa’s eyes widened in surprise, as he pressed his palm flat to his clothed arousal in the hopes of keeping himself in control, he finally heard Thompson break fully. The moan was quiet, muffled by Thompson biting his lip to keep the sound from escaping, trying to keep Sousa's victory from him, and Thompson lifted his hips to fuck his hand faster, watching the other with hungry eyes and an infuriatingly cocky grin on his face. 

So Sousa thought, maybe, it might be okay to stay on the line, just for a few moments longer. After all, it wasn’t in his nature to disappoint.


End file.
